Beyond Not So Happily Ever After
by astro.pancakes
Summary: With the world at war the man responsible at her side, the Campion of Kirkwall is about to face challenges both predicted and some unforeseen. Can Hawke and Anders survive what is to come? F!Hawke/Anders about what came next.


Hello everyone! I had an idea floating around in my head for a while and finally decided to put it down. So, hopefully you all like it. And, no, I do not own anything about Dragon Age, much to my constant dismay...

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><p>There are days when Anders looks back and honestly believes the Warden Commander was set in his path by the Maker himself. Other times, he almost wishes that he'd never talked to the small Dalish elf. It wasn't that he didn't like her. No, that was far from the truth; she'd shown him kindnesses that no one else ever had. It was just that… she had an uncanny way of saying things that came back to bite him years later.<p>

Looking around the little shack in Kirkwall, he almost wondered if the Commander foresaw what would happen to him after that night. He sighed as he turned his attention to the next patient. Back then, he would have had to struggle to clear out the infection plaguing the child's body. He wasn't sure if he ought to be disturbed or encouraged by how little he actually had to focus to heal the child.

He could recall a conversation he'd had with the Commander after a particularly harsh battle that had left him drained of mana and healing magic. She'd insisted on tending to a rather nasty wound he'd received by hand so that he wouldn't take to infection while he waited for the energy to heal it himself. He could still feel her calloused fingers taking as great as care as possible to be gentle. "You know, Justice was pretty angry with you for recruiting Velanna," he commented.

She sighed heavily, the slightest hint of her breath tickling his bare back, "Those ideas may serve him well in the Fade, but here they are much more difficult to truly live by here."

Back then, he hadn't really put much thought into half of what Justice actually said. On a whim, he asked, "How would you serve justice, Commander?"

"I don't," she answered simply, "I only do what I must to do right by myself and by the people I care for. That's all anyone can really do."

He shrugged and hissed as he stretched the wounded area, "I think that you all think about these things far too often. Honestly, Commander, do you have an answer for everything? I think you need a hobby."

She laughed softly, "What makes you think I don't simply make up half of the things I say on the spot, hm?"

He scoffed, "I think I need a drink."

"To further answer your question, I don't think that any mortal creature out to have the right to deal justice. We're corrupt by nature. It isn't fair to decree something subjective to each person as law," she had concluded, "I don't think real justice comes from mortal men."

Well, as far as he could figure, he was still a mortal man. He sighed as he absently reached up to grasp the key to Hawke's cellars in his free hand. There was no way she would approve of what he was going to do. And it made it all the worse that he'd used Hawke to do it. Of course, she'd been suspicious when he'd refused giving her any real idea as to why he needed to get into the chantry unnoticed. After a small moment, she'd given in, trusting him; a trust that he knew he couldn't return.

For a moment, he almost considered stopping. But that thought was quickly shoved aside as it had been every time it reared its ugly head. This wasn't the time for regrets; he would deal with those when he faced the judgment he knew would be in her eyes. And, Maker, did he fear that moment. She would look on him, knowing that blood coated his hands. He knew he would meet his end either by her hand or by the knight-commander's. He preferred to think, in some ways, that it would be Hawke's; at least she would make it fast. And, more than that, some morbid feeling—he assumed something that came from his hosting Justice, because _he_ alone had feared death—kept whispering that he owed her that much.

He closed his eyes and forced the thoughts out of his head as the child he'd heal got up off of the bed and ran off to his parents. With no more patience left to attend to, he began the long trudge up to Hightown and to Hawke.

"…And that's when I told him that it wasn't a sword, it was a dagger!"

Hawke smiled while the rest of the group—save Fenris, who merely chuckled—burst into laughter at Isabela's crude humor. "What's the matter, Hawke? You love that one," the captain asked, concern clearly written on her face.

Hawke shook her head, "It's been a long day." That certainly hadn't been a lie. Still, she caught everyone but the oblivious Merril looking at her. She plastered on a grin and waved her hands, "I think we've all had a bit too much to drink. I think I'll head home before I end up passing out on my way back to Hightown."

Before anyone could protest, she left the Hanged Man and started her way back to her estate. The weight of her staff was reassuring as she made her way through the dark streets. Of course, few would actually realize that it was staff and not simply a strange weapon that adventurers tended to come by. Alone, she managed to turn her thoughts to the blonde apostate she knew would be waiting for her at home. Something was very wrong. Of course, it didn't take a very observant person to notice the signs piling up—even Merril noticed. It started out with a sudden overprotectiveness towards Hawke. It'd escalated to self-flagellating comments. And, of course, there was the all-consuming paranoia. When Avaline had knocked on the door to check in, he'd insisted that he hide somewhere so as to not be seen with her. She'd humored him only because of how truly terrified he looked.

And, if she hadn't caught it at those signs, there were the constant reminders that two apostates in the middle of a Templar-crazy city could never have the promise of tomorrow. Of course, she'd been quick to remind him that a woman who fought high dragons, enraged foreign warriors, and giant atone wraiths on a daily basis didn't really have the safety net of normalcy.

But the two things that really stood out were his sudden change to darker, gloomier robes and his refusal to tell jokes with Varric.

She'd decided. After the chantry incident, there was no more room left for him to keep deep dark secrets. Something had to give—her patience or his secrecy. Still, she couldn't help feeling something horrible stirring in the night. It was the same sense of foreboding she'd felt when she'd entered the Deep Roads and the night before the Arishok decided he'd had enough.

By the time she arrived home, her resolve was solid. She opened the doors and made her way up to her room. He was sitting at the desk, reading through her father's old notes. The book itself was filled with spells and herbal mixtures as well as a few sketches of the landscapes he'd seen and quite a few sketches of his three children and their mother.

Under normal circumstances, Anders was fascinated by Malcolm's notes and amused by the sketches of his eldest daughter. That night, however, there was what Hawke liked to call the "black cloud of doom and despair" hanging about him. "Are you going to start explaining or will I need to resort to more drastic techniques?" she asked, wrapping her arms around his neck from behind.

He didn't look at her. Instead, he focused on the sketch of a young Hawke sitting next to her mother who held the infant twins in their small house. "I envy your father," he said softly.

She raised a brow, "Not because of his dashing good looks, I hope."

One of the corners of his lips lifted a fraction, "He had what I have always wanted."

"You envy him a pretty girl or the right to shoot lightning at fools?" she teased in his ear, "Because I hope that I qualify as a pretty girl and I can assure you that he didn't actually have the right to shoot lightning at fools without having to relocate us."

He sighed, finally catching her eyes, "He had a family."

She sighed and let go to lie own on the bed, "What is the real problem, Anders?"  
>He closed the book and set it next to Hawke's journal before he sat down next to her, "There is nothing to be concerned about."<p>

She shook her head before she turned her back to him, "Keep your secrets, then."

She felt his hand on her arm, "Hawke, there are thing that I do not want to involve you in. This is one of them. I would rather you hate me and safe."

She rolled over to look up at him. He wasn't looking at her again. Instead, his eyes were cast at the fireplace. A solemn sorrow was etched into his features. She frowned, "This has gone far past the level of a joke, Anders. You are beginning to worry me. What have you done that I would hate you for?"

For a heartbeat, it almost seemed as though the flood gates would break and he would start spilling everything he'd kept locked away for months. Instead, he touched her cheek, "I promise you, Hawke, I will tell you everything tomorrow."

She raised a brow, "Everything?"

He nodded, his eyes as set as steel, "Everything."

For some reason, that did nothing at all to reassure her. In fact, as soon as the words left his mouth, the sense of foreboding grew into a feeling that left her feeling warped and twisted.

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><p>So, there you have it! Feedback is appriciated. ^_^<p> 


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